Page 43 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

It was infuriating.

I completed my transformation with deliberate precision, feeling the final molecules settle into place. My new eyes—limited in spectrum sensitivity but adequate for this environment—focused on Tammy, eager to measure her physiological response to my superior form. Would her pupils dilate more dramatically? Would her scent sweeten further? The scientist in me needed this data, needed to know that my selection process had been superior to Vantor’s.

What I hadn’t anticipated was her expression of complete disbelief as she looked at the three of us standing before her. Not admiration. Not attraction. But something closer to exasperation mixed with barely suppressed laughter.

Something had gone wrong with my calculations.

“You know, as much as I’d like to live out my fantasies with Superman, The King of Rock and Roll, and the guy who made ‘How you doing?’ sexy, I think you’d draw more attention like this than you would in your alien form.” Tammy’s words hit me with unexpected force, triggering an unfamiliar sensation in my newly formed human digestive system—something akin to the dropping sensation our species experiences when descending too rapidly through thermal ocean layers. Her rejection of our carefully selected forms wasn’t proceeding according to any of my predicted scenarios.

I blinked—an unnecessarily frequent action in this dry environment—and attempted to process her statement. My newly formed vocal apparatus felt strange as I prepared to speak, lacking the comforting vibration of fluid-filled chambers that characterized communication on my home world.

“These forms are inadequate?” I inquired, unable to keep the puzzlement from my tone. “I selected this specimen specifically for its apparent anatomical superiority and cultural significance.”

Tammy pressed her fingers against her temples, a gesture I’d observed in the television programs that seemed to indicate cognitive strain. “That’s exactly the problem. You’ve turned yourselves into literally the most recognizable people on the planet. Elvis died almost fifty years ago—people would think you’re either a ghost or an impersonator. And Superman?” She gestured toward Vantor’s imposing form. “He’s fictional. As in not real. People dressed as him usually charge for photos at tourist traps.”

The data didn’t compute initially. On my world, adopting the appearance of the most genetically superior specimens was logical and expected. If one of my kind encountered danger, we would take on the guise of a large, terrifying being. A Carlaxian Seprus. A winged Darinube Rapturn. We’d visually become the predator most suited to deflect the threat.

Why would humans not prefer to encounter visually optimal members of their species?

Vantor—his new human features impressively stoic despite his evident confusion—stepped forward. The flowing cloth extension behind him rippled with the movement, catching the air in a way that was oddly graceful for such an unnecessary appendage.

“Then what would you have us look like, Tammy?” he asked, his voice carrying the same intonations even through this alien vocal apparatus.

She bit her lower lip, a gesture that appeared to indicate deep thought rather than the stress response it would signify in our species. My newly formed visual organs tracked the movement with unexpected intensity.

Vantor gathered the length of cloth behind him, pulling it over his shoulder with a curious expression as he studied the material. The fabric—a manifestation of our molecular manipulation rather than actual cloth—moved with convincing realism. I had to admire his attention to detail, though I’d never admit it aloud.

“Perhaps that is for aerodynamics, Vantor,” I offered, applying deductive reasoning to the puzzling design element. The aerodynamic requirements of Earth’s atmosphere differed significantly from our water-based home world, but certain principles remained constant.

Kalith shook his head immediately, his borrowed human features arranging themselves into an expression of dismissal I’d seen frequently on the television. “That wouldn’t help flight,” he countered with the immediate certainty. “It’s got no rigidity.”

We might have continued the debate—I already had three counterarguments forming—but I noticed that Tammy had fallen silent. All three of us turned our attention to her, our newly formed human eyes tracking her movements as she tilted her head in contemplation.

After a moment, she spoke. “Just make a couple changes. The eye and hair color, maybe add a dimple, like this.” She demonstrated by pressing two fingers into her cheeks, creating small indentations in her skin. The gesture was oddly intimate, and I found myself cataloging the exact pressure she applied, the precise depth of the resulting depressions.

“One of you could rock a cleft chin,” she continued, pressing a finger down the line of her chin to demonstrate. Her eyes settled on my face with unexpected attention. “Though I guess Cyro already has that.”

I felt an unfamiliar warmth in my facial region at her focused attention. She even smiled as she lowered her finger from her chin. Despite my earlier error, I seemed to have made amends with this new transformation.

Her expression scrunched slightly as she looked us up and down, her gaze lingering in ways that triggered strange new sensations throughout my manufactured human form. “So, a couple of alien plastic surgery tweaks and you should be good to go in the body disguise department.”

Beside me, Kalith’s face began melting away, one eye slipping down his cheek, the corners of his mouth turning impossibly downward. Tammy stared at him in horror, holding up both hands quickly.

“Stop, put your face back.” She waited for Kalith to comply, and once he did, she sighed. “Just glance back through the magazines and change up your features a little. But maybe do it later, when I’m not in the room. I don’t think my brain can handle more shapeshifting.”

“We will do so,” I nodded, not wanting to bother her badly as I had before. “What else is necessary to assimilate?”

“Well, we need to get you clothes too. It’s cool that you can shape yourselves, so that you don’t look naked, but I really can’t live with perpetually nude aliens.” She bit her lower lip for some reason, seeming to chew on it like she required nutrients. The color of her cheeks deepened.

“But we are donning human attire,” I reasoned, holding up the hem of the button shirt with its wide collar.

“Fake human attire,” Tammy corrected. “Maybe it’s silly, but because I know it’s not real clothing, I can’t stop thinking about you being naked.”

The redness in her face reached a fever pitch.

“Not that I think about you guys naked or anything,” she stammered.

The concept seemed contradictory—we had created the appearance of clothing through our molecular manipulation, yet she classified us as “nude.” Another cultural nuance our television education had failed to cover. I filed the information away, wondering what benefit outside of Tammy’s comfort that real clothing might provide.